


The end of everything

by wallyflower



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Divorce, F/M, Oblivious Hermione, Oneshot, dash of fluff, marriage law
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-11
Updated: 2020-08-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:08:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25837789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallyflower/pseuds/wallyflower
Summary: Two years was a short time to repeal the Marriage Act, but a long time to spend in a sham marriage with one's former professor. As Hermione Granger faces the end of her Ministry-mandated marriage to Severus Snape, she finds that ending things is not as easy as she thought it would be.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 24
Kudos: 332





	The end of everything

He didn’t need long to pack, perhaps, because there was nothing much to pack. Since he had come to live with her two years ago, he had accumulated some books that made the shelf above the fireplace their home; the books, as well as toiletries and clothes, were easily shrunk and stowed away, or at least she assumed. By the time Hermione came home from the Ministry, it was as if he had never lived in the little house, and he was nowhere to be found.

She peeped into the small office that doubled as a makeshift lab for him when he made her small batches of potions, like one for her migraine and for her monthlies. The office was empty, cleared of his stock ingredients and the notebooks he used to keep tidily on the shelf. She realized with a pang that she was going to miss going through her periods pain-free. He had figured out a way to appealingly infuse the menstrual relief potion with honey and lemon that she was never able to replicate.

She checked the kitchen too. He had been the only one between the two of them to really attempt cooking. This was mutually decided during the first month of their marriage, when she had made suitable pasta noodles one night but disappointingly burnt the sauce until it was a charred mess. The saucepan had been unsalvageable, but the dinner was not, as Severus had found to make something of it, as he did for almost the rest of their time together.

He had filled the cupboards with spices and ingredients she had never thought to use. He left them there now, and Hermione wondered if she’d ever be able to use them. Never needing to cook while at Hogwarts, he had nonetheless become quite proficient at cooking for the two of them, and she did take pains to thank him for his cooking quite often. She would have been fine with ordering out almost every night, but he had looked at her choices (fish and chips, Chinese takeout from round the corner) and had sniffed, telling her she was too young to be filling her body with garbage. He had often been like that, she thought. Quick to cover up concern and consideration with a scoff or two.

His bedroom was equally empty. The bed was stripped and she knew without checking that the sheets would be freshly washed and folded, tucked into her linen closet. The one bathroom, where he had never stored much to begin with, was clear as well.

And of course, there was no sign of him in her bedroom. He had only been in it once, after all.

He had taken the rings. He had bought them and enchanted them, and he’d had the right to them, but her hand felt curiously light without the silver band. She wondered if he would sell them, or if he would save them for a possible marriage with another.

She slipped off her shoes. Not quite knowing why, she crawled into bed still in her work clothes and closed her eyes, and soon fell asleep.

***

The next two weeks went by without much incident. She had had to get used to a new routine, the same one she’d had two years ago, before she got married. Now there was no hot coffee waiting for her when she got up in the mornings, and she needed to wake up earlier so she could drop by the bakery two blocks away from the Ministry for some takeaway breakfast.

She hadn’t had the heart to try making the eggs that Severus used to make in the morning, though there had been some attempt to teach her. Something about using the curiously empty kitchen, when she hadn’t cooked for two years, made her feel unsettled. _Bold of you to assume you can use the kitchen without disaster_ , she imagined him saying, and smiled. For this reason she usually forwent dinner altogether or ate with Ginny at the pub.

She was spending more time with the Weasley-Potters and their children anyway. The house seemed too quiet without her ex-husband. Crookshanks, grown old and rather grey now, was not speaking to her, it seemed; he spent most of his time outdoors, as if in silent protest at the loss of his companion. He had after all spent more time with Severus than with her over the last two years. Severus’ classes at Hogwarts usually ended before five in the afternoon, and he was often home through the Floo long before she was. Most days, she found Severus waiting for her at the phone booth near the park that she used for transport to and from the Ministry, ready to lecture her if she forgot a scarf or to tell her about Crookshanks’ latest indiscretion as they walked home, chatting amiably.

It had been a remarkably good marriage. She had said as much to Harry on the day after the Marriage Act was repealed, as he went with her to draw up the papers to finalize the divorce. Harry had had a funny look in his eyes at the time. She supposed he wouldn’t know how it felt for her; he had gotten married to Ginny before the Marriage Act took place, while she had been caught up in it with Severus Snape due to a combination of arithmantic calculations and some quite strategic planning on the part of the now-defunct Order of the Phoenix.

Minerva and whatever counsel she consulted had worked to make sure no half bloods or Muggleborns ended up in marriages with men who had dealings with loyal Death-Eaters, or those with unsavory personal histories. Hence, the Muggleborn Hermione Granger and half-blood Severus Snape had ended up clasping hands in Minerva’s office on Samhain as they were betrothed. To think that that was almost two years ago; a remarkably short time to get a law repealed, but quite a long time to live in a sham marriage with one’s former professor.

If Severus had any feelings about the end of their marriage he hadn’t shown it; but then he never told her much about what he was feeling anyway. He had been easy enough to talk to, as she became more comfortable with the thought of him as a partner than as her teacher, but he still rarely shared much about himself. He hadn’t seemed particularly thrilled about signing the divorce papers, but he hadn’t been all that thrilled, too, during their engagement two years prior. He just hadn’t made as much of a fuss as she thought he would. Over time she realized that he had truly mellowed after the war, and he made a quite amiable, interesting, even-tempered husband, who was interested in her work while remaining busy with pursuits of his own, in between cooking and caring quite well for the house, which she tended to neglect.

They had signed the divorce papers on a Tuesday night, with Harry—an unusually subdued Harry—popping in to witness. She told Severus that he was welcome to stay as long as he needed to pack, and he hadn’t taken that long at all, and was gone before she returned from work the next day. She supposed he had been preparing for the event as long as she had.

After all, her work at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had been focused for a long time on repealing the Act for the Incentivization of Halfblood and Muggle Born Marriages, by which any wizard could petition a half blood or Muggle-born, and a witch could refuse proposals no more than twice. Draconian and completely in character for the Ministry of Magic that had gradually emerged from post-Voldemort embers, the act had driven a large number of marriages of convenience, ostensibly to revive the magical gene pool which had been seeing an accelerating number of squibs. Many wizards and witches had held hope of temporary marriages only, while lobbyists like Hermione put in the work to repeal it.

Finally she was free. He was free, too. While she did still miss the camaraderie of their evenings, it was a happy thought that he could be free of any ties that kept him from pursuing personal happiness, after a life of indentured service to one master or another. Her quiet, empty house was a small price to pay. Ginny, who eyed her closely over drinks at the pub almost every other night, said nothing, and Hermione said nothing, too.

***

Around three weeks after her divorce, a communication came through the Floo bearing the Hogwarts seal; she thought at first that it could be Severus, who had resumed living on the castle grounds and resumed, too, his role as Deputy. She couldn’t account for her disappointment when the handwriting turned out to be Minerva McGonagall’s. Severus himself had never owled or Floo’d since signing the divorce papers; not, she thought, that he had to.

The Headmistress was writing on behalf of Poppy Pomfrey. Severus, it seemed, had come down with Dragon Pox—a particularly bad case as he hadn’t had it in childhood. It was five days since Poppy had seen the rashes but the Deputy Headmaster refused to be cared for and refused the potions she offered for headache, or fever, or body pains. The wards in his rooms would not admit any of the staff, and the Castle respected its former master’s wishes and kept everyone out. So severe was his illness, Poppy continued, that he had been refusing food from the House-Elves, much to their distress.

The nerve of the man! After he had lectured her so often about her own neglectful eating habits, Hermione thought. But beneath the irritation there was an undercurrent of worry.

Minerva, with her characteristic forthrightness, was inquiring if she might still perhaps have access to the wards, or if she thought that Severus would answer if she were at the door. It was a quite surprising question, given that Minerva ought to have known more than anyone about the impersonal, obligatory nature of their marriage; she doubted that she could make him do anything that he had so clearly, stubbornly set out not to do.

However, she did wonder if she might still be admitted to his rooms in the castle. She had only been there a handful of times, and once to pick him up there after he had fallen asleep after a long night of brewing for the castle potions stores. She thought of the way she hadn’t yet had the heart to reinstall a personal library into what had been Severus’ room. She just hadn’t got around to it yet. Perhaps Severus had not yet had time to change the wards?

***

A mere thirty minutes later and she was waiting at the foot of the castle doors to be admitted. The sky was the deep orange of a sunset. Minerva must have been expecting her, for the doors swung open readily, but Hermione didn’t make her way to the Headmistress’ office; instead she hopped onto the stairs and briskwalked down the corridors that led to Severus’ room in one of the lesser towers.

She had been expecting to be met with the portrait of the sleeping knight, who, when he was awake, tended to wink roguishly at her until Severus threatened him with displacement. Instead there was a vast canvas of black—but no; as she approached the portrait she realized that it was a portrait of the night sky. The stars seemed to burn more brightly as she came near; a lovely effect, a fine bit of magic. She lifted her hand to touch the canvas.

And realized that the night sky was that of Samhain, two years ago. It was a quick, wild, baseless thought; but as she ran the calculations in her head as she stood on the threshold, she found it to be true.

When her fingers touched the portrait it swung open slowly, and she went inside. It was still Severus’ rooms: walls covered in books and deep, rich cherry wood panelling; a fireplace, which was dormant; and the couch upon which she had seen him collapsed once before, exhausted after brewing. She trailed her hand across the cream colored cushion, swallowing.

“Severus?” she called out haltingly. Surely he was still in the castle, and had not Floo’d away to Spinner’s End or elsewhere? “Severus, are you here? Minerva sent for me.”

There was no answer, and still no answer when she knocked on the door to his bedroom. Slowly she pushed it open.

And there he was: looking quite ill, pale and deeply asleep, sprawled out under a dark grey duvet, but very much alive, safe and sound. She wandered closer and thought about waking him. The rashes, which often appeared on the face and the hands, seemed to be fading, in varying degrees of improvement.

She smiled. His sleep was deep and his snoring was soft. His eyelashes made a black sweep across his cheek. His nightshirt was open at the neck, and she could see the remnants of his scar from the snake Nagini. The scars had healed quite well, with no contractures. A quick diagnostic spell showed that he had no fever and was not suffering from dehydration, though he had quite low blood sugar levels.

The fire had gone out in his room. She looked around; she hadn’t been inside before, with her previous visits—including the days following their engagement—confined quite primly to the sitting room. It was slightly less tidy than he had kept his room in their home, but still neater than her own space. A fireplace, with no portrait above it; a desk, covered with parchment and old quills; a shelf filled with stacks of bound papers and books; a nighttable with a solitary lamp and a pair of reading glasses; large windows; and a low storage bench at the end of the raised bed.

She lit the fire, called quietly for a house-elf to bring water and food, and settled in to wait. A note was dispatched to the Headmistress to assure her that Hermione would take care of the rest. She conjured a chair. She was loath to wake him, but also couldn’t stand to leave knowing that he was ill and had been refusing any looking-after. Surely their marriage had to count for something and, once awake, he might be persuaded to take one of Poppy’s potions to accelerate his recovery.

Sitting on the chair, she leaned forward so that her elbows were on the bed, and her head pillowed on her elbows. His hair was a deep stripe of black against the pillow. She thought of the way his hair had lain on her pillow two years ago, the one time they were in bed together for their Ministry mandated coupling. Nobody had ever looked at her like that before; with such guarded longing.

I had this for a little while, she thought, looking at him passed out on the bed: a solitary man who was used to a solitary life. This was mine. But not anymore.

***

When she woke the fire was still burning, but the sun had set. Severus was still asleep, though he had turned on his side, facing away from her. His shoulders were broad, straining against his nightshirt. How silly of her to fall asleep in such a position while watching him; and yet her nap had been quite restful, and it wasn’t discomfort that woke her but a niggle of magic. It was a gentle, suggestive, benign magic that invited her to come closer. Its source was Severus’ nighttable.

Not quite knowing what she was doing, she stood contemplating the table, with shadows enshrouding its ancient lamp and the pair of reading glasses she used to see perched on Severus’ nose late in the evenings. The magical pull was coming from the drawer beneath. Would he be angry if she opened it? But yes, of course, he would be; but the magic was benign, she was sure. Nothing about him would ever hurt her.

Inside the drawer there were a few knick-knacks, like old fountain pens and small notebooks. The pull came from an unremarkable wooden box nestled in the middle of the haphazard mess. She lifted it; it was twice the size of her palm, and the lid slid open easily under her fingers.

Everything came to a stop then. Shaking fingers took inventory of the contents: a photo of her and Severus on the day of their marriage, looking serious but not unhappy. Her father had probably taken the photo as it was a Muggle one. She looked quite nice in it actually; curls tamed and organized, white dress making her figure appear fuller than it was. Severus stood beside her, expression neutral, but he was holding her hand. He looked very tall and dashing in his formal robes. She thought with a pang of how carefully he dressed for parties and Ministry functions when he accompanied her.

Next, a tiny vial from which a strand of silver memory glowed.

A cutting of the announcement of their marriage, a tiny square of newsprint.

Tiny, rolled up pieces of parchments, probably a dozen all in all.

_Severus—_

_I’ll be late for dinner I’m afraid. Hearing going on bit too long. Don’t worry about me, I’ll pop round the corner and take home one of those bacon butties you like so much._

_Hermione_

_Severus,_

_Don’t come home yet, the workers aren’t done with the termite infestation and everything’s a mess. Apparently the little beasts came from next door. Our books are undamaged._

_H_

And then there was the ring box, made of the most delicate light blue velvet. The sensation of being pulled and attracted came from it most certainly. As she opened the box and saw his and her bands nestled within, she realized that the enchantment must have been pulling at her from her ring. Some wizards and witches asked for a charm that would make their rings easier to find if misplaced. She had probably never felt the enchantment before because she had never taken off the ring until the day of their divorce.

She had felt a pull towards Severus’ room that night. But she had thought that that was just her own, silly fancy. Her need to say more to him; her need to express her gratitude that he would doubtless have found unwelcome.

Her finger touched the smooth burnished surface of the band she had worn for two years. Had it been so bad? It wasn’t. Why had she been in such a hurry to take this off?

Two years of her life, and all that was left of them fit into this tiny box.

From behind her came sounds of movement. As she turned, suddenly afraid, Severus was sitting up, clutching his head. He must have a beast of a headache, she thought. His eyes met hers and there was no way she could conceal what she had been doing.

“What are you doing here?” He said, his voice low and icy cold. Her insides lurched. He hadn’t spoken to her like that since long before their marriage.

“I—Minerva sent for me,” she said in a rush. “Poppy said you were ill and refusing food and treatment.”

He was getting up and on his face was an expression of fury she had never expected to see again.

“Unhand that box,” he said.

“I—here,” she said helplessly, closing the ring box and trying to replace it in its wooden home, but he snatched both away from her before she could do that.

“Get out!” He yelled suddenly. “This isn’t yours to take. It’s mine. You will not take it! Get out!”

Spots of color were high on his cheeks and his eyes were not entirely focused. She realized then that he was still quite ill, and perhaps not himself. She tried to put her hand on his shoulder and to gesture to the tray of food on the storage bench but he rebuffed her, a burst of wandless magic making her stutter backwards as he clutched the items to his chest.

“Severus—I’m sorry—“

“No, you’re not!” He gritted out. “Leave here at once! Get out!”

When she didn’t move, his magic moved her. “Get OUT!” he bellowed, and the next moment she found herself outside of his portrait hole as if pushed there instantly by an unseen hand. The stars of that Samhain night twinkled uselessly at her from the canvas. The wards, which had before fallen open easily under her touch, paid no mind to her and to her shocked, angry tears.

***

She said nothing of the incident to Ginny; or rather, she could say nothing, because the Weasley-Potters were preoccupied with their own children, who were themselves laid up with Dragon Pox. Hermione resolved to think nothing more on the matter of her husband, and to preoccupy herself with work.

For a while there, she had found herself at a bit of a loose end, emotionally and otherwise. She now realized that it was perhaps just because her longtime goals had been met at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, and she needed a new project. She put in a few inquiries at Beasts and Beings. _New beasts to look after_ , she sniffed to herself, _after I lived with one for two years._

And yet the comment, however internal, was unfair, and she knew it. He had not been a beast. He had been unimpeachably courteous. Years of waiting for her at the phone booth, of opening doors for her, of making her potions. Of caring for her cat, of plying her with food and drink when she forgot herself, of small kindnesses. If her new husband, whoever he was and however long it took for her to find one eventually, treated her half as well, she would be lucky.

She now wondered if anyone could be compelled to put up with her without a government mandate. She was in her early twenties but had the life skills of a teenager and the hair of a wild animal. She was too preoccupied with work sometimes to bother about dressing well or looking nice. When talking of her personal strengths with Ginny, she used to joke that at least she was quite good at camping, but she doubted that any future husbands were looking to spend extended periods at the Forest of Dean.

Life went on, and she settled into singledom. A tentative request for a drink came in the good-looking form of one of her co-workers, who had recently learned of her divorce, but Hermione did not quite feel ready. The topic of Severus, and by extension Hermione’s nonexistent home life, went unmentioned in her notes to and from Ginny and Harry.

A letter came a month after Severus left. On receiving it Hermione felt something inside her unknot and relax.

_Miss Granger,_ it began. He hadn’t called her that since the night of their engagement.

_I would like to apologize for my behavior during your most recent visit to Hogwarts. The Headmistress assures me that your appearance in my chambers was not a hallucinatory side effect of Dragon Pox. I find myself no longer contagious and, if you are available, I request a short meeting with you tomorrow._

_So as not to interrupt your routine, I hope that we may meet at the phone booth near your neighborhood park at 5:30 PM._

_Severus Snape_

She couldn’t bear to write him a note in return. His formal address and formal signature stayed her hand. Instead she sent him her Patronus to tell him a curt _yes_.

***

She was a little guarded as she walked towards him after Apparating into the phone booth the next day. His letter was polite and conciliatory but what had happened at Hogwarts made him a stranger to her again; certainly the crazed man who thrust her from his chambers was not the same one who scolded Crookshanks for asking to be fed twice.

But Severus now looked as he always had when he was waiting for her, sitting on a park bench in a charcoal grey overcoat and a scarf that concealed the scars on his neck. He was looking into the distance, at the children playing at the park across, but at the sound of her steps his dark eyes met hers and he rose to meet her. She became conscious of the cold weather and the fact that she had once more forgotten to bring a scarf of her own, but of course he had none for her now; his hands were noticeably empty before he shoved them into his pockets.

“Miss Granger,” he said.

“Professor,” she said, equally neutral.

Something about the way he blanched at her address and looked away made her soften a little towards him. They sat.

“I was unforgivably rude the last time we met,” he said, getting to the point immediately, still staring straight ahead. Across them, an au pair gathered her charges to bundle them home, and a dog barked somewhere in the distance. “Forgive me. I was quite ill. I didn’t ask what you needed or what you were looking for.” Still not meeting her eyes, he ploughed on. “Afterwards I thought perhaps that you were looking for your ring. It does have some quite powerful enchantments and protective spells on it. I thought perhaps you realized that you felt safer wearing it, so I have brought yours to return it.”

He said nothing about his ring, she thought. His hand was conspicuously ring-less. The pale band of skin on his finger caught her attention as he clenched and unclenched his fingers in his lap.

“Oh,” she said, somewhat belatedly. She felt a little foolish. “Nothing like that. I assure you I hadn’t meant to go through your things—I was just quite drawn to the ring in the box. Perhaps a residual enchantment?” She posed, but still he did not meet her eyes. She touched her hand to his shoulder and he stiffened visibly. “I didn’t come to retrieve anything. The staff were worried about you and they called me in.” She swallowed. “The portrait hole let me in quite easily.”

“Yes,” he said. His mouth, his jaw was tight. “I had forgotten to reset the wards.” Neither of them said nothing of how she was unwelcome there now.

“Are you feeling much better now?” she asked tentatively.

“Yes. Much better. The rashes have faded entirely.” He cleared his throat. “I had wanted to apologize sooner, but Poppy warned me that I would be contagious for another week or so.”

“Yes,” she said. “They were quite upset with you, you know.”

He was still looking away from her, but his cheeks had spots of color. “I was just—beginning to settle into Hogwarts again when the illness came. I did not—did not much want their company or their solicitude.”

“Or food, or water,” she chided.

“Or those,” he said.

“You ought to have let me take care of you. You took care of me quite often enough when we were—when we were married.”

“That would have been unwise,” he said, and she nodded, knowing something of what he meant. The temptation to climb in beside him as he lay, warm with sleep, had been quite strong.

“Still, I would have liked to repay some of your kindness to me,” she went on, searching his face. “I wish I had expressed it more often during the last two years, but I did see—I still see—how good you were to me. You could have made the whole thing harder than it was. Instead, it feels like I—like I gained a friend.”

“A friend.” He swallowed. “Yes.”

“You did much more than you had to,” she said. “You really—cared for me.”

“You were given to me to protect,” he said, looking away, “and infinitely precious to me.”

For a moment she wasn’t sure she heard him correctly. From far away the sound of the barking dog piped up again, underpinning the silence as he steadily refused to meet her gaze. She could only think of the painting on his chamber entrance. The night of Samhain. Their betrothal. How he had looked at her across the pillow, the only time he was ever in her bed; that doomed longing.

After a while, at her lack of a response, he cleared his throat.

“I have given Minerva and the staff strict instructions not to contact you again should something like this arise. They assumed too much. We have no legal responsibility for one another, and I assure you that it won’t happen again.” His hand clenched and unclenched once more on his lap before he rose. “If you don’t require anything from the items that I now safeguard, I’ll head back to the castle. Thank you for meeting with me and for accepting my apologies.” His eyes still didn’t meet hers and his face was tight as he reached for the wand in his pocket, ready to Apparate.

Instead he found himself accosted; her hand gripped his arm, vise-like. If she didn’t ask him now, he might never meet with her again. He could be dramatic like that. Or, perhaps she thought with a sudden clarity, he had learned to safeguard himself from hurt. Had learned to step away where he felt he was not wanted.

“Can you answer me one thing?” She said. He had met her eyes briefly but now his gaze was once again trained somewhere in the distance.

“Indeed, I wonder if you can stop at just one question,” he said stiffly.

“Why did you sign the divorce papers?”

He stiffened even more and pulled away, but she hung on, until she was right in front of him and he was forced to meet her expectant stare. He cleared his throat.

“The marriage act was repealed. You know this, as you were quite instrumental in bringing that about.”

“That’s not the answer to my question,” she said, “or rather it isn’t the only one.”

“It is the only answer I can give,” he said. He was definitely Occluding, she thought.

“Let me rephrase my question then,” she said. “How did you feel about being married to me?”

He wouldn’t rebuff her with a lie. During their marriage, she had gradually noticed that when he could, he always tried to spare her feelings, and would tell her uncomfortable truths with quite a great deal of kindness. She couldn’t recall a single time that he had lied to her.

“It was the happiest two years of my life.” He swallowed and having realized that her grip had become slack, he pulled his arm away and drew his wand again, preparing to leave. “I did try,” he said quietly, “to make its duration and its end agreeable to you as well. I ask that you not think less of me for feeling as I do. I have said nothing about it to your friends, and will say nothing to my colleagues.”

She burst into tears then. A great wave of emotion washed over her that she felt she had been concealing for weeks. He stared at her, aghast, wand clattering to the ground; before she knew it he was fussing over, seating her on the bench and trying to pry her arms from her face.

“I apologize—you did ask—I’ve never wanted you to feel uncomfortable—I’ll leave if you want me to, just please stop crying—“

“I would never have signed the papers if you had said anything,” she hiccuped through her tears. “I thought you wanted to get rid of me. I know being married to me was a lot of work—“

“No,” he said forcefully. “I was just—happy.”

The only reason that she hadn’t fully explored or contemplated the possibility of loving him romantically was because she had been so certain she was beneath his notice that way. She knew how little appeal she must have held to someone who had watched her grow up. That way, she had thought, lay only disappointment and heartache. She thought that perhaps Harry and Ginny suspected, but she had never been able to share her feelings on the subject.

“I didn’t know you could think of me that way,” she continued, still speaking through the hands that covered her face. “I thought I was the only one who was happy.”

“It didn’t seem possible,” he confessed then, still crouched in front of her, “that I could hope to keep both for very long. A perfect wife, and a perfect life.”

“Not perfect,” she said, still sobbing, thinking of burnt pasta sauce, and horrid hair, and messy bathrooms, and the way some people called her a harpy.

“No,” he said gently. “You were. It was.”

“Since when—“

“Since our engagement. I am an old fool,” he said quietly, “the kind who mistakes belonging for love. I realized that you would belong to me for a while and knew that I would love you.”

She wept harder.

“Do you think that we could—again—“ she stuttered.

“Yes, of course. Whatever you want.” And his hand was on her cheek; and she was finally home again.


End file.
